The name never came up again.

The driver had been with us six weeks.

He asked whether I wanted the radio and I said no, and he left it on the classical station anyway, low enough that I could hear the turn signal over it.

“Mr.

Prescott’s assistant called me at eight,” he said.

“She wanted to know where we were going.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you were going to your father’s.”